


Call Me Up When the Snow Comes Down

by slpblue



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Christmas fic, Fluff, How Do I Tag Please Help Me, M/M, Snowball Fight, Winter, i feel like i've already over-tagged this but, i low-key hate this but eh, it's cute i hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 04:30:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8953705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slpblue/pseuds/slpblue
Summary: They met in the middle of a snowball fight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yikes. So I started writing this in like, May or something, and didn't finish it until right now, so if it seems weird and like the beginning doesn't fit the end that's why. But it's three days until Christmas and I don't feel like looking at this anymore so please excuse mistakes and general awkwardness. I hope you like it!

The Great Snowball Fight is an annual tradition in Chicago among the various high school- and college-aged kids.  It is a rite of passage that all teens and young adults in the city yearn to complete with every fiber of their being, that they all want to take part in—it _is_ the Great Snowball Fight, after all, and stories of epic heroism and downfalls are whispered into pink-tipped ears cold from waiting outside in the hopes that snowballs will start flying—but there’s one problem.

It’s an impromptu fight.

No one knows when or where it will be, what day or at what park at what time.  You just have to hang around outside and be cold in the hopes of being caught up in the melee.

Occasionally some random punk kid will try to start the Great Snowball Fight, but it’s not something you can _force_ .  A friendly battle turns sour as an all-out war erupts.  One year, known as the Year of Peace, they didn’t even have a fight, because the moment was never quite right.  The origin of the Great Snowball Fight is a mystery; parents and grandparents alike talk fondly of their days partaking in the activity, although their Fights were a bit tamer than the brawls that break out today.  Pete doesn’t care.  All he knows is that he fucking _loves_ it.

“I fucking love the Great Snowball Fight,” Pete declares, stamping his feet in the hopes of bringing back feeling to his numb toes.

Joe huffs out a breath, a cloud of air misting from past his lips.  “It’s cold as balls,” he complains, ignoring Pete.

Pete shoots him a lazy smile.  “I really fucking love the Great Snowball Fight,” he repeats.

“Yeah, you said that,” Joe grunts, digging his hands further into the pockets of his jacket.

_At least you’ve got gloves that don’t have holes in them_ , Pete thinks snarkily.  His own hands are tucked up under his armpits, but he’s not sure that helps too much.  “It’s cause I do.”

“Can we go home?” Joe whines.  “I don’t think it’s going to happen tod-- _shit!_ ”  A snowball smacks Joe square in the face and he stumbles back a step, managing to stay upright even when his foot threatens to slide out from under him on a patch of ice.

“Yes!” Pete whoops, casting around for whoever had thrown the snowball.  This was it, this had to be it.

“No,” Joe moans, shaking his head.  His curls are dusted in a fine powder of snow.  “God damn it,” he sighs.

When no more snowballs start flying, Pete glares out across the park.  “What the fuck?!” he yells, breath steaming.  “You call that a snowball fight?  Come out where we can fucking see you!”

A nearby man holding onto the hand of his young child shoots them a dirty glare, but he just keeps walking without saying anything.

“Pete,” Joe complains, “shut the fuck up.  There’s no one there.”

Indeed, no one emerges from behind any trees or appears on a park bench, and finally Pete accepts that some asshole was just fucking with them and no, this isn’t the Great Snowball Fight, not yet, but yes, he will be there when it starts if he has to wander the city continuously until he finds it.  He’s that determined.

Until he’s also hit in the face with a snowball.

Pete isn’t nearly as graceful as Joe about it; he falls promptly back on his ass, legs skidding out from underneath him on the slick pavement.  Joe barks out a harsh laugh, doubling over.  Pete just stares up at the gray sky, trying to figure out why he’s on the ground now.

“Holy shit dude,” Joe chortles, “you should have seen your fucking face, oh my god.  Priceless.”

Pete struggles to sit up, swatting at the snow still on his face with his holey gloves.  “Fuck you, Trohman.”

“Like you were any nicer when I—” Joe’s words are cut off again as a volley of snowballs flies in their direction.  Joe dives behind a snowdrift, Pete scooting over next to him as quickly as possible.  Now he can hear laughing.  And he knows that laugh.

“Fuck you, Hurley,” he shouts, reusing the main insult in his vocabulary.  He pokes his head over the snowdrift and then promptly ducks back down when another round of ammunition flies their way.  Pete’s still scowling, but it’s a light-hearted look.

“No, fuck _you!_ ” comes Andy’s reply.

Joe’s already scraping together piles of snow into balls; he’s stacked a few to the side.  “Let’s show him who’s boss,” Joe grins.

“Come out where I can see you, you bastards!” another shout rings out.

_That’ll be Jon_.  Pete chuckles and ignores the cold as he digs his hands into the snow, shoveling it together and packing it down into a nearly perfect snowball.  There’s a few moments where all Pete can hear is the huffing of their breaths and the crunch of compacted snow.  He peeks his head over the top of the snowdrift again, narrowing his eyes at the lack of snowballs flying towards his face.  “Right,” Pete says, hunkering down and shooting Joe a serious look.  “Here’s the plan.  I’m going—”

“Oh my god,” Joe roll his eyes.  “Dude, just fucking throw some snowballs before they come over here.”  
“Too late,” Andy chirps.

Pete looks up, eyes wide.  “Shit.”

The armfuls of ammunition Andy and Jon hold don’t take long to deplete, and soon Pete and Joe are covered in snow and frozen to the bone and shivering and cursing and chasing their friends around the park.  Pete notices a few other kids watching, and he hopes they’ll join in and they can have the Great Snowball Fight because he _fucking loves the Great Snowball Fight_ but no such luck.  Eventually the four friends come to a stop, gasping for breath and slightly steaming from the exertion.  Jon’s the first one to suggest going for coffee.

“Oh my god, yes please,” Pete begs, teeth chattering frantically together.  Melted snow soaks his clothes, and he can feel another wad of the stuff creeping down his back.  Shit, he needs a new coat.

Even the nearest Starbucks is too far for Pete’s liking, so he complains until the rest of his friends agree to head to the much nearer Cork Tree Coffee.  Warm air washes over them as they enter the shop, and Pete hurries to close the door behind them so they don’t get too many dirty looks from people annoyed at the cold draft that enters with them.  Jon, who isn’t much of a coffee drinker, and Andy, who probably couldn’t find something to drink here even if he wanted to (the vegan menu isn’t exactly extensive), head off to find a table somewhere while Joe and Pete weave their way towards the counter.  Pete eyes the board the whole time, scanning the prices next to the drinks and remembering the crumpled five dollars in the pocket of his jeans.  The cheapest drink is $4.99, but with tax that’s—Pete does some quick mental math—$5.40.  Fuck, he forgot it was more expensive here.  He stands on his tiptoes, trying to see the Pass It Forward Jar because there’s usually a few bucks in it and—yeah.  He relaxes.  There’s gotta be at least six more dollars in there.

“What’re you gonna get?” Joe asks, still searching the board.  They move forward a few feet when a gaggle of young girls finishes giggling out their orders.

“Um,” Pete replies.  He’s actually not sure.  He drags his eyes back to the board, finally reading the name of the drink next to the price.  “The mint latte.”  Pete grimaces.  He doesn’t even like mint.  Whatever, as long as it’s coffee and it’s hot.

Joe nods.  “Yeah.  I think I’m going to get something pumpkin spiced.”

Pete nearly chokes on his laughter.  “Seriously?”

“Hey, if every girl wearing Uggs—which is practically fucking all of them—like it, then there’s got to be something to it, doesn’t there?” Joe defends himself.

Pete snorts.  “Whatever.”

There’s only one guy in front of them now, reading his order off the screen of his expensive-looking phone.  Frank looks like he wants to bash his head in on the register when the guy changes his mind _again_ about whether he wants chocolate shavings on top of his drink or not.  “I personally prefer with,” Frank offers, trying to be helpful.

“Mm,” the guy muses.  “I’m going to go without, then.”

“Yeah, okay,” Frank says, biting back a harsher reply and staring down at the register.   _Asshole alert_ , Pete thinks wryly.

Pete expects the guy to pull his wallet out, or procure a twenty from a pocket or something.  What he does _not_ expect is for him to dump the Pass It Forward Jar on the counter, ask “How much after that?”, and then pull a measly $2.31 from his own money.  Fucking asshole fucking confirmed.  If Pete weren’t so completely flabbergasted he would punch the guy in the face because how the fuck is he supposed to get coffee now?

They step up the counter, Pete low key panicking.  He can’t just say he doesn’t want coffee all of a sudden, because Joe would get That Look and offer to pay for him and that’s just another thing Joe will have paid for that Pete can’t pay back and no.  No.  Maybe if he pretends to throw up he can get out of this.  Maybe if he throws up for real.

Frank is scowling, looking for all the world like he also wants to punch the guy, who’s standing at the end of the counter texting furiously.  Frank’s face relaxes when he sees Joe and Pete.  “Hey guys.”

“Hey Frank,” Joe greets, stepping forward to order first.  He pays with a ten, dropping two dollars into the jar next to the register and carefully not looking at Pete.  Which.  Okay.  It’s better than Joe outright paying for him, plus there’ll still be a dollar left so he won’t be taking the last one, and he’ll just put his change in the—no, he’ll convince Joe to take it, or slip it into his pocket or something.  And sure, 60¢ isn’t a lot, but it’s better than nothing and—

“What’ll you have, Pete?” Frank asks, smile back in place.

“Oh, uh, a small mint latte, please,” Pete requests weakly.  God, he needs a job.

Frank nods, jabbing at a few buttons.  “That’ll be $5.40.”  Wordlessly, Pete passes him the five, pulling out a dollar from the jar in front of him.  He hesitates a moment with his change, then drops the quarters and dime in the PIF jar.  Someone else could need them.  “Have a good day!” Frank chirps.  Pete smiles at him and moves down the counter.  Honestly sometimes it’s a little scary how cheerful Frank is at his job compared to all other times.

Pete shakes his hands as he waits for his drink to get ready; they’re stinging with the sudden heat of the coffee shop.  Joe’s leaning against the counter with his hair in his face, tapping at something on his phone with one hand and holding his drink in the other.  He looks up when Pete approaches.

“You can go sit down,” Pete offers before he has the chance to say anything.  “You don’t have to wait for me.”

“You sure, man?”

“Yeah.”

Joe shrugs and heads off to squeeze between Cork Tree customers in the hunt for Jon and Andy.  Pete takes the time to scan the crowd for cute boys.  There’s one in the corner with adorable red mittens, but then his girlfriend plops down next to him and kisses his cheek, so no.  His friend sitting across from them, wearing black glasses, laughs and reaches over to steal the girl’s knit beanie, and if he can pull off the cute nerd thing then Pete will totally go over to him and subtly flirt with him.  Which.  He’s Pete Wentz.  It won’t be subtle.  But he can’t really see him, with the way he’s turned three-quarters of the way away from his.  If he would just turn his head—

“Hey Pete, mint latte, right?” comes a voice from behind the counter.

“Wha?”  Damn, he never got to see his face.  “Oh yeah, thanks Adam.”

“No problem.” The brunet boy’s smile falters when he takes in Pete’s face.  “Are you okay, man?”

“What?  Yeah, I’m fine,” Pete replies, taking the proffered drink from Adam’s hand.  “Why?”

Adam makes a vague gesture in the general direction of Pete’s face.  “You look like you’ve been crying?”

“Uh, no,” Pete says slowly, then realizes.  “Oh god, it’s my eyelin--no, no.”  He starts laughing at the confused look on Adam’s face.  “No, dude, it’s from the snow, oh my god.  We got in a snowball fight earlier.”

Adam’s laughter is half-formed from lingering confusion.  He digs around behind the counter and presses a napkin into Pete’s hand.  “Might want to go ahead and just get rid of the rest of it,” he grins.

Pete takes the napkin.  “Thanks.”

Adam nods and moves off to make another order.  Pete goes off to search for his friends.  He finds them squeezed into a booth in the corner.  Joe, Andy, and Jon sit on one side of the table, and Pete’s surprised to see that Ryan and Brendon have joined them on the other.

“Hey guys,” he greets, sliding in next to them.  And if he takes up more room that he really needs so that Brendon and Ryan have to squish next to each other, well there’s nothing he can do about that, is there.  Jon shoots him an amused look across the table.

“Hey Pete,” Ryan replies, reaching for a napkin.  Crumbs from some sort of pastry litter the table in front of him.

“See anyone you like?” Joe teases, and Pete’s pretty sure that he goes red so fast it takes _negative_ time.

“What the fuck, Trohman?” he squeaks.  Bringing his cup up to his lips, Pete makes a point not to meet anyone’s eyes.

“Come on,” Joe continues, leaning forward.  “We all saw the way you were looking around, searching the grounds for eligible mates.”

Pete chokes on his latte.

“Mates?” Andy asks around his laughter.  The whole table has erupted into giggles.  “Really, Joe?”

Brendon pats Pete on the back, making sympathetic noises.  Pete coughs and nods at him to show he’s fine, although with the way it sounds like he’s hacking up a lung he’s not actually sure he is.

Brendon’s the only one not laughing along, and Pete sees the tense line in his shoulders, probably with the way Brendon can feel Ryan shaking next to him.  Pete hasn’t been on this end of Joe’s teasing too many times, but he knows Brendon has felt it enough to last a lifetime.  Joe has teased Brendon so much about Ryan that he’s afraid to make a move, and the kid needs all the help he can get, since Ryan is abso-fucking-lutely clueless.

“So?” Joe asks.

“So what?” Pete mutters.

“See anyone?”

“Oh my god Joe, no.  Just drop it.  God,” Pete replies, exasperated.

“Fine, fine.”  Joe sits back in the booth and grins smugly.  Pete rolls his eyes.

Ryan leans forward so he can see Pete around Brendon.  “Hey, do you guys want to come to the park with us tomorrow afternoon?  We were thinking of hanging out for a bit, see if the Great Snowball Fight starts.  I know Pete’s in,” he laughs at the way Pete lights up, “but anyone else interested in going?”

“Sure,” Jon shrugs.  Andy and Joe agree as well.  And of course Brendon does, trying not to look too eager and failing.  He seems to have forgotten that it was partially his plan.  Pete smiles down at his coffee.  Idiot.

“Awesome,” Ryan says, leaning back again.  “I guess we’ll see you tomorrow then.”

* * *

“Oh m-my g-g-god, it’s really f-fucking c-c-cold,” Joe chatters, rubbing his hands up and down on his arms.

“J-just wait a m-minute,” Ryan says.  “The s-sun should b-b-be out s-soon.”

“Y-you said th-that f-fifteen minutes ago,”Andy complains.

“I’m n-not leaving until w-w-we have a snowb-ball fight,” Pete declares.

“Yeah,” Brendon pipes up.  Pete suspects he couldn’t care less about a snowball fight at this point; he’s huddled up next to Ryan, and the taller boy has his arm wrapped tightly around him.

“I sw-swear, if this f-fight doesn’t h-happen before I g-g-go back to school I’m g-going to b-be fucking pissssed-d,” Pete adds.

“D-dude,” Jon says, giving him a weird look.  “We all l-literally g-go to the University of Chicago tog-gether.  It’s how we all m-met each ot—”

“Shh,” Pete whispers, interrupting his friend and pressing a numb finger to Jon’s numb lips.  “Shhhhhhh.  Sh.”  Jon jerks his head away with a good-natured “f-fuck off.”

“Well, y-you have fun f-freezing your b-balls off,” Andy retorts.  “I’m going to--”

“Holy shit, P-pete!  Look who it is!” Joe exclaims, bouncing on the balls of his feet excitedly.  Pete follows where Joe’s pointing and—

“Oh g-god,” he groans.  “Someone hide m-me.”  He grabs at Joe to pull him in front of him, but his friend dances out of his grip.

Brendon looks at the four figures winding their way through the snow, still some distance off.  “Who is it?”

Andy gives a grin.  “It’s _Mikey Way_ ,” he sing-songs.

“F-fucking shut up,” Pete mumbles, pressing his face into his hands.  This is the worst thing that could ever happen.

“W-wait, w-hat?” Brendon asks, burrowing deeper into Ryan’s side.

“Where have you g-guys been all this time?” Jon laughs, speech becoming clearer as this new development distracts him from the cold.  “It’s only the g-guy Pete’s been pining over for his wh-whole _life_.”

“Ohhh,” Brendon realizes.  “ _That’s_ Mikey W-way?”

“Oh my _god_ , sh-shut the fuck up, _please,_ ” Pete moans.  He’s so red he doesn’t even feel cold anymore.  In fact, he’s surprised he hasn’t melted through all of the snow at his feet.  “It’s not a big deal.  And it’s been, like, three m-months, _tops_.”

“Two months three weeks and one day, actually,” Andy says mildly.

“What the f-fuck man, how do you know that,” laughs Ryan.

“Because Pete never shuts _up_ about him,” Jon replies for Andy.

“He’s gives us a running count every day,” Andy agrees.

Pete wonders helplessly, for the second time in as many days, if this is a situation barfing will get him out of.  To his immense relief, he sees that Mikey and his friends don’t seem to be headed his way.  In fact, they might go right by without a single incident, not even a glance in their direct—

“Hey Mikey!  Gee!” Joe shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth and taking a few steps towards them.  The four figures look over, and then Joe fucking _waves them over_ and they _head their way_ and Pete’s going to _die._

Pete stares at his friend, mouth flapping uselessly.  His thoughts are running at a million and one miles an hour, too fast for him to grab ahold of one and hurl an insult at Joe, or take off running in the other direction.

Andy pats him hesitantly on the shoulder, seeming to understand that, even if he finds the situation hilarious, Pete’s having an internal crisis.  Pete appreciates the support, superficial as it is.

Brendon’s got his face shoved into Ryan’s side, muffling his laughter, but his efforts are lost because everyone else is laughing outright.  It gets worse the closer Mikey and his friends get, because as they do Pete’s face gets redder and redder.

They’re not too close yet, so Pete takes the time to snatch up a wad of snow from the ground, quickly pack it into a tight little ball, and lob it at the back of Joe’s head.  Joe nearly falls over when he spins around, yelping.  No one makes a move to either help or hinder Pete, so he creates another one and flings it towards his friend.

“Dude,” Joe splutters, “what the fuck?  Cut it out.”

Pete grits his teeth and readies a third snowball, because if he’s going to have to try to stutter his way through a conversation with Mikey he might as well get some nervous energy—and anger—out on Joe now.  The muscles in Pete’s arm contract and he starts to throw.

And then Pete looks over at Mikey.

Well that was a fucking mistake.

He still looks as attractive as ever, a jaw that could cut a bitch and hair supermodels would be jealous of, but that’s not what steals Pete’s breath this time.  No, it’s the way his fingers, encased in bright blue gloves, are tightly intertwined with Kirstin’s.   _Oh._

Pete’s aim falters, and the snowball soars high over Joe’s head.  It smacks neatly into Gerard’s face, and the older man stumbles backward, heel sliding on a slick patch of ice, and falls with a heavy _thud_ on his ass.  There’s silence between the ten men (and one woman) standing there, eight of them looking incredulously at Pete, one glaring fiercely in his direction, one rubbing the snow out of his eyes, and Pete himself staring with despair at the crisp white snow blanketing Gee’s dark hair.

“What the fuck was that for?”  Frank’s practically vibrating with anger, all traces of his amiable coffee-shop self gone.

“Would you believe me if I said it was an accident?” Pete asks meekly.

Frank doesn’t reply, crouching down to help Gerard to his feet.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Pete begins, taking a step forward, but before he can get any other words out there’s a hit to his shoulder and snow spraying up to splatter on the underside of his chin.  “Fuck, that’s cold,” he hisses, wiping ineffectively at it.

“No shit,” Gerard retorts, gloves speckled with white from where he had packed together the snow.

“Was that really necessary?” Jon asks, trying to calm down a situation that is rapidly escalating into something more hostile.

“Ask Pete,” Frank snaps.

“Hey man, you just made me coffee like, yesterday, and—”

“It means nothing?  I agree,” Frank interrupts Pete.

Joe snorts and crosses his arms, and Pete knows nothing good is going to come of whatever words he speaks next.  “Well, if you weren’t so freakishly protective of your boyfriend when all he got was a snowball in the face—”

“Shut the hell up,” Frank squeaks, face going even more red than the cold air had already left it.

“We’re not—we’re not—Frank isn’t my—” Gee stutters.

For the first time, Ray speaks up.  “Look guys, it’s okay.  We can just leave and forget about this.”

“Sure about that?” Joe asks lazily, and before anyone can do anything to stop him he lobs a snowball at Kristin.  It smacks neatly into her chest, and she and Mikey look at the remnants of the projectile with shock.  Joe just looks oddly gleeful.

“What the hell did you just do?” Brendon hisses, poking Joe hard in the side.

“Only what Pete wanted,” Joe replies, and then the snowballs start flying.

Pete gets hits several times in the back before he skids behind a snowdrift, not taking a second before he’s scooping up his own snow to make weapons.  “This means war,” he mutters under his breath.

Ryan tumbles down next to Pete, Brendon hot on his heels, and starts to make snowballs as well.  Brendon just looks dazed.  “Brendon!” Pete exclaims, pushing snow his direction.  “Make some fucking snowballs, man.”

“Sorry,” Brendon mutters, packing together the powder into deformed spheres.  Ryan laughs softly and takes the snow from his hands, fingers brushing, and packs it down for him.  Brendon smiles.  Pete makes a gagging sound.

“Oh my god—you two can eye fuck later.  Right now we need to have a fucking snowball fight.”

Brendon and Ryan dutifully avoid eye contact for the next minute or so.   _Honestly,_ Pete thinks, _everyone is so gay and so clueless_.

Within the next couple of minutes, Pete and his friends manage to regroup with only minimal damage.  “Okay,” Pete pants, out of breath from excitement and the mad scrabble to try and not get hit with a snowball.  “Here’s the plan.  Brendon,” he points at him, “you’re going to be bait—”

“What!” Brendon exclaims.  “Why am _I_ the bait?”

“Because you’re the short, fast one who they won’t be as likely to hit,” Ryan supplies kindly.

“I’m not _short_ ,” Brendon grumbles, although compared to Ryan everyone is short.

Pete snorts.  “Yeah, and you also suck at snowball fights.  Anyway, Bren’ll be bait.  Andy and I will distract them with a frontal attack, and Joe, Ryan, and Jon will sneak around back to ambush them.  Everybody got it?”  No one answered.  “Awesome.  Let’s do this!”

Pete’s friends launch into action, carting around armfuls of snowballs and packing snow down into a protective shield.  Pete shoves Brendon out into the line of fire, where he is promptly assaulted with snowballs.  He yelps and nearly falls over, then starts running in random zigzag patterns across the park, which does nothing to prevent him from being hit.

“Go men, go!” Pete commands, moving his arm in a military-style gesture to indicate that his friends need to get off their asses and start fighting back.

Andy rolls his eyes, but Joe and Ryan grin and sneak off around to ambush the Ways and their friends, Jon right behind them.

There are a few intense minutes of Pete pelting all the snowballs Andy packs down for him; at one point he vaults over their makeshift shield and rolls forward to get closer and throw the snowball farther, but falls back when the volley that flies his way all hit him.  Pete watches as his other friends sneak closer to their enemies.  They’re almost there, about to strike, when—

—a snowball slams into the back of Pete’s head.   _Hard._

Pete’s head snaps forward and he gets a face-full of snow before flipping around and instinctively throwing the snowball in his hand out wildly.  A group of kids, obviously still in high school, all squawk and scatter.  They regroup after a moment, and now snowballs from two different directions are flying towards Pete and Andy.  Yells come from where Pete knows Mikey and Co. to be, so hopefully his friends will keep them busy for a while, but now they have a new problem to deal with.

“Uncle!” Andy yells, throwing up his hands and scrambling away from Pete.  “Don’t fire—I surrender!”

“Traitor!” Pete accuses him, not stopping with his assault.  The kids don’t either, and it’s five to one with no hope of Pete winning, so he takes off running towards the trees, earning a few more snowballs to the back for his troubles.

Pete skids to a stop behind a tree, breathing puffing in and out of his lungs, and finally realizes how fucking _cold_ he is.  Damn.  He needs new shoes.  And a new jacket.  Just new shit in general.

The teenagers laugh and giggle and have a fucking riot until Pete watches as Frank—a tiny man full of a fuck-ton of rage—sprints out of nowhere yelling incoherently, nailing them when the armful of snowballs he carries with him.  They shriek and scatter, running into other people around the park.  One of them even knocks some girl over; she promptly turns and dumps an armful of snow on his head.

And then Pete realizes, as more people join in and vague teams form and adults smile wistfully and get out of the way—this is it.  This is fucking it.

The Great Snowball Fight.

And he started it.

Pete whoops in delight and doesn’t think about Mikey for the rest of the battle.

* * *

Pete is _going_ for it, a blur of thrown ice and red ears.  His hair is wet and stringy and sticking to his cheeks, but he doesn’t care.  He’s having the time of his life.

Not exactly sure who’s on what team, Pete flings a handful of snow at a nearby man, who he guesses to be around the same age as him.  The guy flinches away, yelling in surprise, and Pete laughs at him.  He clenches and unclenches his fingers, gloves soaked and crazy cold, in an attempt to bring some feeling back into his fingertips.

The man makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat before bending down to snatch up his own handful of snow, shoving his beanie farther down on his head as he goes, so that Pete can’t really see his face between the hat and scarf he’s wearing.  Pete feels the familiar happy _oh shit_ feeling shiver through his stomach when he realizes he’s got a new opponent and turns tail and runs into the trees again.  Snowballs splatter around him, close but not hitting him.  This has been his primary strategy for the past hour or so: lure his enemies into the trees and then ambush them when they least expect it.  It’s been working great.

The sounds of the Great Snowball Fight fade, the footsteps of Pete’s assailant growing louder in contrast.  Pete darts into a particularly thick group of trees and underbrush and fights to keep his breathing quiet.  He knows he was far enough ahead of the other man that he’s lost track of him, also knows that his footprints have run over each other enough through this area that he can’t follow him that way.

Pete sucks in an icy breath, the air stinging the back of his throat.  The man creeps closer through the snow, footsteps crunching on soft powder.  There’s a snowball in his hand, held loose and ready to throw, like he knows what he’s doing.  Even if he doesn’t have the best aim, Pete can tell this kid means business.

The kid moves closer.  Pete tenses his muscles—and then darts out from behind the tree yelling.  He swings as hard as he can, and Pete has just enough time to see eyes wide in surprise behind thick-framed glasses before he beans the man in the face with his snowball.  Arms windmilling frantically, the kid drops his own snowball and falls flat on his ass.

Pete laughs triumphantly until he hears a groan.  Then the smile melts from his face.  “Oh shit, are you okay?” he asks.

“Fuck,” comes the reply, muffled from the snow covering his face.  It’s gotten stuck behind the lenses of his glasses.  “Did you have to throw it so hard?”

Pete winces.  “Sorry dude.”  In the distance he can still hear the pleasured screams that mean the Great Snowball Fight rages brutally on.

The man sits up slowly, swiping ineffectively at his face with snow-caked gloves that do nothing but shove more of the powdery white down his scarf.  He clambers to his feet, grunting.  Shivering, and realizing that he’s not going to get the snow off his face like that, he peels his gloves off to reveal...another pair of gloves?  These are fingerless and most definitely well-worn, fitting his slender fingers like a second skin.  The kid pulls off his glasses and unwinds his scarf, shaking it out.  Snow finally falls away from his face enough for Pete to get a good look at him, and his breath catches because _holy shit_.

He is, quite frankly, the most beautiful person Pete’s seen.  Ever.  Maybe that’s ever existed in the whole history of the world.  Pete’s not sure.  He’ll have to stare some more to prove this hypothesis correct.  His cheeks and nose are flushed red from the cold, pink lips chapped from the icy air but still full and lush.  His golden-red eyelashes fan down over his cheeks as he brushes off his expensive-looking black peacoat, the same color as the damp blondish bangs that peek out from beneath his blue beanie.  He smashes his horn-rimmed glasses back onto his face, and finally glances up to meet Pete’s gaze.  Pete stops breathing.

His plan had been to look quickly away and pretend like he wasn’t staring—but how can he look away from _that_ gaze, and _that_ face, with _those_ eyes?  They’re a blue-gray-green-brown-pretty-as-fuck combination that are staring quizzically at Pete in the most adorable expression he’s ever seen.  “Are you okay?”

Goddam.  Now that he’s not speaking from behind a mouthful of snow, Pete realizes that his voice is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.  Can this kid get any more perfect?

Realizing that he probably looks like he’s about to faint—and he almost does, in all honesty—Pete nods hastily, pulling down his own scarf from around his face.  “Yeah I’m fine.  But I should really be asking you—are _you_ okay?  Looks like I hit you pretty hard.”

The kid grins, exposing a row of pretty white teeth.  Pete nearly melts into a puddle right then and there.  “Yeah.  And if that was your best shot I don’t think you need to worry about hurting anyone anytime soon.”

“Hey,” Pete says, offended.  “That hurt.”

“Unlike that snowball.”  He bites his lip and grins.

“There’s no need to be so rude,” Pete huffs, crossing his arms.  Even if this stranger is drop-dead gorgeous, he’s decided to not fall for him if he’s going to be a dick.

“M’kay,” the red-blonde says airily, his scarf slipping out of his fingers and falling to the snow.  He bends down to pick it up, making little noises of displeasure when the tips of his fingers come into contact with the frozen precipitation, and suddenly Pete has a moment of panic.  What if this kid isn’t trying to be rude—what if he’s flirting and Pete’s just being dense and not realising it?  What if this is the moment Pete’s been waiting for all his life?  The one where his Big Gay Dream finally comes true and he falls in love and gets married and adopts kids and lives happily ever after and—

—gets hit in the face with snowballs, apparently.

Now Pete is the one stumbling back and cursing, flailing his arms and trying to retaliate.  The other man laughs, the sound overwhelmingly endearing, and Pete’s distracted by it just long enough for him to get away.  The most beautiful person Pete’s ever seen in his life, and he’s gone without a trace.

“Well, _fuck_.”

* * *

That year’s Great Snowball Fight lasts for several more hours, until it starts getting dark.  Pete is one of the last ones to leave, and only does after he’s dragged away by his friends.  He can’t feel his fingers or toes or nose or ears or cheeks or really any of his body, but it’s worth it.  It’s so fucking worth it.

* * *

“No, you don’t understand,” Pete is telling Brendon, legs tucked up under his chin on the park bench, “he was beautiful.  Beautiful.”

“You’ve told me,” Brendon sighs, breathing misting out in a white cloud.  They're waiting to meet up with their friends; Pete had insisted they build a snowman army together.

“But you _don’t understand,_ ” Pete protests.  “You have to wait and see for yourself.  You’ll forget all about Ryan and chase after him instead and I’ll have to fight you off so I can have him for myself and then you’ll realize that we were meant to be and that Ryan is the better choice for you anyway and—”

“Jesus fuck Pete, breathe,” Brendon interrupts when Pete’s face starts getting red.  “I’m not going to try and steal your man from you.”

“That’s good.”  Pete puts his hands in the joints of his knees, bending his legs around them to try and keep them warm.  He went ahead and threw out his gloves after the snowball fight; they were ratty and holey, getting snow stuck on the inside rather than keeping it away from Pete’s skin like they were supposed to.  “Because he’s mine.  And you and Ryan are way more interested in each other anyway.”

Brendon flushes at that, pulling his beanie lower over his ears.  “That’s...no we’re not.”

Pete gives Brendon a withering look.  “Brendon.”

“Okay,” Brendon admits after a second.  “I might like—”

“Might?”

Brendon scowls.  “I definitely like Ryan, but he doesn’t feel the same way back.  So it doesn’t matter anyway.”

Pete stares, thoughts of his true love momentarily pushed from his mind.  He turns so that he’s facing Brendon, sitting with his legs crossed on the bench.  “You’re...you’re kidding, right?”

Brendon’s fingers tap out a nervous rhythm against his thighs.  “Pete.  No, I’m not kidding.  I wish I were, but—”

Pete barks out a laugh, startling Brendon.  “Dude,” he wheezes, wiping away an imaginary tear, “you do realize that Ryan is just as head over heels for you as you are for him?”

“No, he’s not,” Brendon squeaks.  “If that’s the case, then why hasn’t he said anything, or asked me out, or even fucking bought me coffee one time.”

"You guys are such idiots,” Pete laments, “leaving me to fix up your sorry excuse of a love life.  Brendon.  He’s _nervous_.  And apparently he also doesn’t know that you like him, so you’re the one that has to make the first move now.”

“I don’t—but,” Brendon stutters.

“Oh come on.”  Pete rolls his eyes.  “You have a dick, don’t you?  Use it.”

“Pete!” Brendon chokes.  “Oh my god, shut the fuck up.  I don’t want to have this conversation with you.”

“You’re not going to be able to avoid me when I finally fall into bed next to my new boyfriend,” Pete singsongs.

Brendon jumps willingly on the subject change.  “What’s his name, anyway?”

Pete’s mouth twists in embarrassment, and he doesn’t meet Brendon’s eyes.  “Um.  I don’t—I don’t exactly like, _know_ …”

“You don’t even know his name?” Brendon asks, incredulous.

“I mean, I only talked to him for like five minutes,” Pete mumbles.

“And _you’re_ the one lecturing _me_ on _my_ love life?”

“Shut up,” Pete says, swinging his legs over and standing up.  He stretches, his hoodie riding up over his stomach.  He puts his arms down and pulls his jacket down over his skin to protect it from the sharp bite of the winter air.

Brendon stands as well.  “Hey, at least I know who Ryan is.”

Pete starts walking, expecting Brendon to follow.  He does.  “Yeah, but that hasn’t helped you any.”

Brendon grumbles something under his breath that Pete doesn’t catch, and they walk in silence for a moment.

“By the way,” Pete says casually.  Or rather, ‘casually’.  “Have I mentioned how pretty he was?”

Brendon sighs.  “Only about fifteen times.  Fifteen _thousand_ times.”

“I don't think that's enough,” Pete says.  “Let me tell you again.  He was drop-dead gorgeous.  The most beautiful person on the entire planet.”

“What about Mikey?” Brendon asks out of nowhere.  “I thought _he_ was the most beautiful person on the planet.”

Pete ducks his head.  “I…it wasn't going to work.”

“Sorry,” Brendon says awkwardly.

Pete shrugs.  “It doesn't matter.”

“You know,” Brendon continues, as they round a bend in the sidewalk, “out of all the times you've told me about this kid, you've never actually told me what he looks like.”

Pete gives a grateful look to his friend.  This the exact subject change he needs.  “Well.  Let me tell you something.  Let me learn ya a thing.”

Brendon huffs out a shivery laugh and shakes his head.

“First of all, I'm pretty sure this guy was rich, based on his clothes and glasses and dainty little hands, which is basically the only reason I'm attracted to him.  So that first of all was actually also a last of all.”

Brendon glances at Pete out of the corner of his eye, who lasts about .00000006 seconds before bursting out with, “Okay, _okay._  Fine.  He had this messy red-blond hair and his eyelashes were so fucking pretty and his skin was so pale he might have actually been made of snow himself, like _god._

“And his eyes, Bren, holy shit, his fucking _eyes._  They were the most beautiful, unique shade of blue—or maybe they were green.  I'm not sure.  They fucking changed colors, and once I swear I thought they were almost yellow.  And he had these glasses that were so cute and kinda nerdy and a scarf and a hat and _Brendon holy fuck_.”  Pete grabs onto his friend’s arm for support.  “I've never seen anyone do this before, or make it look so hot, but he was fucking wearing two pairs of gloves?  Like, who does that?”

“You're such a girl sometimes, Pete,” Brendon laughs.

“But I'm a pretty girl,” Pete says, batting his eyelashes.

“Not with that shit job of eyeliner you aren't,” Brendon teases.  Their footsteps crunch over the icy sidewalk as they keep walking.

“It makes me look beautiful,” Pete sniffs haughtily.

Brendon nods.  “You keep telling yourself that, Pete.”  He looks distracted though, a frown furrowed between his eyebrows.  A thoughtful frown.  He's up to something.

“You're up to something,” Pete states.

Brendon looks offended.  “What, no!  When have I _ever_ been up to something?”

Pete's just about to say something else when he spots their friends just ahead.  “Joe!  Andy!  RyanSpencerJon!” he says in a rush.

Said friends look up at Pete; he's loud and hard to miss.  Brendon shakes his head, still looking like he's up to something.  Pete hurried over and practically dives into the snow at their feet.  “I fucking love snow,” he mumbles.  His friends grumble good-naturedly about being dragged out into the cold to make this fucking snowman in the first place, but Pete couldn't care less.  He knows they're all secretly glad to be here.

As Pete watches, Brendon goes up to Ryan and stretches up to whisper something in his ear, and the taller boy ducks his head and smiles.  Pete is too impressed by his match-making skills to notice that they both look conspiratorially in his direction.

“Let’s get this over with,” Joe complains, but he’s grinning as he starts scooting a small snowball across the ground to make the base of their snowman.

“Brendon, get off your phone man,” Pete commands, seeing that the brunet is hunched over the device, scrolling through something and frowning, Ryan leaning over it and laughing silently.

Brendon snaps his head up and guiltily pockets the device.  “I’m just trying to help you out, dude.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pete wonders, but his attention is already drawn to where Joe and Spencer are are trying to throw the rather sizeable base of their snowman onto Andy, who is easily evading them.  Jon just watches and records their antics on his phone.  “Hey, that’s not how you use that!” Pete yells, scrambling to his feet and chasing after them.  He misses the way Brendon and Ryan smile at each other and then at Pete, like they’re up to something.

* * *

“Oh my god, _what_ ,” Pete groans into his phone.  It’s way too fucking early for this.  It’s—he pulls his phone away from his face to check— _ten in the morning_.  Way too early.

“Jesus, if I had known you would be this pissy I wouldn’t have called,” Ryan’s annoyed voice says through the phone speaker.  “Guess you don’t want the present we got you then.”

“No, wait,” Pete croaks, trying to get out of bed and basically falling onto the floor.  “I like presents.  Did you say we?”

“Yeah, I’m here with Bren.”

A grin stretches out across Pete’s features.  “Of course you are.”

“Just get down here,” Ryan says, irritated.

“Where is here?” Pete asks, but he’s interrupted by someone talking in the background.  There’s a rustling sound, presumably as the phone changes hands, and then Brendon’s bright voice speaks into Pete’s ear instead.  “Hey Pete.”

“Hey.”

“Sorry Ryan is being so... _Ryan_.  Ow!  You didn’t have to punch me, you asshole,” Brendon says, presumably after being punched by Ryan.  There’s laughter in his voice.

“So is that the way things work between you?” Pete asks lightly, because he’s Pete Wentz and makes people uncomfortable for a living.

“Pete, fuck you.  I’m not answering that question.  It doesn’t work _any_ way between us...so far.”

“But it _will_.”

“Pete.  Seriously, shut the fuck up.  Damn it, I was supposed to be the _nice_ one in this conversation.  No, Ry, I got it.  No, don’t—”

“Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the third,” Ryan says, having taken his phone back.  “Get your ass down to Cork Tree five minutes ago or I will personally burn everything and everyone you love.”

“Fuck, what a threat,” Pete grins into the receiver.

“I’m serious, hurry up,” Ryan demands.

“Alright, calm down,” Pete grumbles, but when there’s nothing but silence he pulls the phone away from his face to see that Ryan has hung up.  “Asshole,” Pete mutters fondly, dragging himself off the floor and into some clothes.  He spends more time tastefully smearing eyeliner than he does picking out his clothes, which is maybe why he ends up in an atrocious combo of red plaid pants and a purple striped top that falls too low over his chest to really be considered a ‘winter’ shirt.  Whatever.  Not like he has anyone to impress.

The air outside is still too cold, and Pete still needs to get a new jacket.  He settles for popping the worn collar of his ratty one with a hole in the pocket and sinking down into his shoulders.  “Fuck,” he mutters.  “Fucking fuckity fuck fuck.”  Sometimes it helps to just say ‘fuck’ over and over.  Not today.  Today it’s cold as shit, and Pete ends up running the rest of the way to Cork Tree, barging in the doors out of breath and very disheveled

Surprisingly, the cafe isn’t that crowded.  Maybe, Pete muses, because it’s a Sunday and it just opened.  He spots Ryan and Brendon easily, shaking his hands to try to get the stinging out of them as he walks over.

“Finally,” Ryan drawls, an arm slung over the back of the chair next to him and, consequently, Brendon’s shoulders.

“Shut it, Ross.  I got here as soon as I could,” Pete snaps, but he winks as Brendon, who blushes.   _Damn, I’m good_.

“You do realize you said that out loud?” Ryan smirks.

Pete shrugs and plops down into one of the chairs across from them, his back to the door.  “Whatever.  Doesn’t make it any less true.”

“Except when it comes to yourself, apparently,” Brendon puts in, and Pete flips him off.  “Shut up.  I’m working on it.”

“And how’s that going for you?” Ryan asks, and honestly if he manages to look any more smug Pete will be both impressed enough to congratulate him and pissed-off enough to punch him.

He doesn’t stoop to give Ryan a reply, choosing instead to wave to Frank when he starts to bus the table next to theirs.  “Fuck off, Wentz,” the short boy mutters, but Pete detects the hint of fondness that gets him free size upgrades on drinks if he asks his friend nice enough.

“You realize that table is clean, right Frank?” Pete asks, curious.

Frank swipes the rag over the spotless table once again and shoot Pete a withering look.  “Obviously.  I was the one who cleaned it.”

“Well then what are you doing cleaning it again?”

Brendon snickers and manages to mostly hide it with a cough.  Frank sits down and puts his arms behind his head.  “Watching.  I hear there’s going to be quite the show.”

Pete glances over at Brendon and Ryan, who are wearing twin expressions of glee.  “...Guys?”

“Just trust us,” Brendon assures him.  Pete doesn’t feel very assured.  They sit in silence for a tense moment before Frank asks in a bored voice, “How much longer?”

Ryan glances at the watch on his wrist, having to bend his arm further around Brendon’s shoulders in order to see it.  “Probably like ten minutes.”

“Alright.”  Frank stands.  “I’m going to get some coffee.  Do you guys want anything?”

“Sure,” Brendon agrees, “just whatever you’re having is fine.”  Ryan shakes his head no and Pete nods, but Frank points a finger at him.  “No, nothing for you.  You’re squirrely enough as it is, you little shit.”

“Hey, there’s no need to call names,” Pete whines at Frank’s retreating back.  Frank waves him off with a tattooed hand.

Pete turns back to look at his other friends.  “Ryan?  Brend—actually, it’s too hard to call you that.  Collectively, you are now Ryden.”

“What the fuck kind of name is _that?_ ” Ryan demands.

“I dunno, I think it’s kinda cute,” Brendon mumbles, shrinking down when Ryan frowns at him.

“Hey, Ryden.”  Pete snaps his fingers.  “Attention back on me, please.  Why are we here?”

“You’ll see,” Brendon says vaguely, smiling.  “But you’ll thank me for it later.”

“Really,” Pete deadpans.

“Ryden?” Ryan asks again.

“Really,” Brendon promises.

“Okay but come on, _Ryden?_ ”

“Ry, shut up,” Pete says. “Brendon and I are having a Very Serious Discussion.”  He carefully enunciates his words so that Ryan is sure to hear the capitalization.

Ryan snorts.  “‘Very serious,’ my ass.  You’re just whining.”

“You’re the one that wanted me here,” Pete points out.  He leans forward.  “Really, I need you two to tell me why I dragged my ass out of bed before noon on the weekend or else I’m leaving.”

“Um,” Brendon says eloquently, and Pete sighs and makes as if to stand, but Brendon flails his arms desperately.  “No!  Pete!  Sit the fuck down!”  Someone from the other side of the cafe glares crankily at them, but they all ignore it.

Pete settles back into his chair, pouting.  “It wouldn’t be a big deal if you fucks would just _tellll meeeee_.”

“There, again with the whining,” Ryan says.

“Honestly guys just tell me,” Pete begs.

“Hold your horses, they said like five more minutes,” Frank commands, setting a cup down in front of Brendon and, after a slight hesitation, one in front of Pete.  “Don’t say I never did anything for you,” Frank grumbles good-naturedly at Pete’s noise of delight.

“They said _ten_ minutes,” Pete points out.

“Does it matter?”

“ _Yes_.”

Brendon’s phone chimes, and he about falls out of his chair when he checks it.  “Okay, nevermind, it’s actually more like thirty seconds now.”

Frank’s face lights up.  “Oh, I’ve been waiting for this since you told me about it yesterday, Bren.  Been deleting all the unnecessary photos from my phone to film it and everything.”

“Really?” Brendon asks, surprised.

“What the fuck are you going to do to me.”

“No,” Frank laughs.  He pauses.  “Actually, maybe.”

“Seriously, guys, what the _fuck_ are you going to _fucking_ do to me.”

Ryan waves a bored hand and steals a sip from Brendon’s coffee.  “Nothing you won’t seriously enjoy.”

The bell to the store chimes behind Pete, and he frowns at his friends, ignoring the slightly nervous way Brendon waves to whoever just walked in.  “I trust approximately zero of you.”

“I don’t trust them either, honestly,” says an amused voice from behind Pete, and he freezes.

“Hey, Patrick,” Brendon says brightly.

Oh so slowly, like he’s trying not to scare off a skittish animal, Pete turns his head until he sees the person sitting down next to him, unwinding a familiar scarf and shrugging off a familiar pea coat.  “Hey Brendon.”  The kid— _Patrick_ —nods at him.  “Ryan.”

“Frank,” adds Frank, not at all subtly holding up his phone to record the whole thing.

_The fucker_ , thinks Pete, but now Patrick is looking at him with his pretty pretty eyes and his full full lips are pursed in the most adorable of smiles.  “And you're Pete, right?” he asks politely.  “Bren told me about you.”  He glares at his friend as he says this.

“Yeah,” squeaks Pete.  “I’m...I’m Pete.”

Patrick holds out a hand, “I’m Patrick.”

“I love you,” Pete blurts, then covers his mouth with his hands and looks horrified.  The other three boys burst out laughing.

“Sorry?” Patrick asks, amused.  He pulls back his hand.  “I think it’s a little early in our relationship for that, don’t you?”

Pete leans nonchalantly back in his chair and nearly falls onto the floor.  “I, uh, who said anything about a relationship?”

Patrick looks confused, and he glances over at Brendon, who just smirks and shrugs.  Frank shifts to get a better angle.  “Isn’t this...this _is_ supposed to be a date, right?”

“Mm hm,” Ryan hums innocently.  “Pete agreed to a blind date after a little persuasion.  You two are exactly each other’s type.  Trust us.”

“A _date?_  Ryan, what—I mean, yeah, sure—what.  Yeah.  Cool,” Pete stutters.   _What the fuck oh my god what fuck fuck fuck not while my hair looks like this._  When he feels his phone buzz, he pulls it out to see Brendon’s text.

+dude just go with it

=i hate u

=why didn’t u tell me u knew him?????????

+you never asked you asshole

=fuck u

+actually that’s what you’re supposed to do to patrick

Pete chokes on his spit, and Patrick pats him hesitantly on the back.  “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Pete wheezes, shoving his phone back in his pocket and giving Brendon a Death Glare.

“Alright,” Patrick chuckles nervously, still looking confused.

“You know what,” Ryan says, standing, “I think Bren and I are going to go for a walk.  To that table over there.”

“What?  Oh—yeah.  We’ll be over there.”  They get up and sit down again across from Frank.

Pete bangs his head on the table.  “I hate you guys.”

Patrick pats Pete’s hand reassuringly.  “I hate them too, don’t worry about it.”

Pete glares at Frank, who’s still filming them on his phone.  “Dude, what the fuck.  How much fucking storage do you have on that thing?”

“A lot,” Frank says gleefully.

“Well you’re allowed to stop,” Pete retorts.

“Dude, I’m never stopping.  I could do this _alllll dayyy_.”

“Oh, so you’re quoting Gerard now?” Patrick quips coolly.

Frank goes scarlet and Pete gapes at the savagery.  Brendon and Ryan burst out laughing so hard that Brendon actually starts crying.  “Shut up,” Frank croaks.

Patrick’s grinning when he says, “C’mon, Pete, we don’t need to have our first date ruined by these losers.”  He takes Pete’s hand and stands, gathering his things, and Pete numbly follows him to the door.  He hasn’t had time to process anything, to get over that Brendon _knew Patrick the whole time_ and now he and Patrick are _on a date_ and Patrick is _really fucking pretty okay_.  His mind feels like a lagging groupchat, messages popping up and skipping each other, confusing as fuck and way too much information to handle.

“Um, where are we going?” Pete asks weakly.

Patrick shrugs, dodging a table.  “Outside.  Aren’t you cold in that?”

There’s no way that Pete’s telling him it’s his only jacket.  “Doesn’t matter.  It’s my only jacket.”   _What the fuck_ , Pete asks himself.  Or maybe there is, apparently?

Patrick stops and frowns at him.  God, Pete hates the pity.  This is worse than Joe buying lunch for him every single fucking time they go out, because at least then Joe doesn’t make a big deal of it.  “We can stay here if you want,” Patrick offers.

“No you can’t!” Frank shouts, practically leaping at them, vaulting over a table.  “You have to walk out that door right now!”  Brendon and Ryan follow more slowly.

“Well if that’s how you feel,” Pete mutters, this time the one to pull Patrick by the hand.

As soon as they pass the threshold, the three friends behind them break out in cheers.  Pete turns back to watch Frank point ecstatically at the top of the doorway, where, ever so innocently, hangs a sprig of mistletoe.  “You dick,” Pete says to Frank, who is _still fucking recording them oh my fucking god_.  “Really, mistletoe?”  Pete’s pretty annoyed, which is probably why he almost misses the brush of soft lips over his cheek.  He doesn’t miss it though, which is why his breath catches in his throat and he almost falls over.

Patrick pulls away from him, grinning.  “It’s tradition.”

Pete just stands there with his mouth hanging open, mind completely blank of everything except the thought that he would really like to have that glorious mouth on his right now.

“Oh come on!” Frank complains.  “That was a sucky first kiss.  I was recording you guys and everything.”

“Disappointing, really,” Brendon agrees.  Ryan just smiles like he knows what Pete is going to do next.

Which is, of course, mutter “Disappointing, my ass” under his breath, reach up to cup Patrick’s face in his hands, and kiss the living daylights out of him.  Patrick makes a surprised little sound at the first contact of their lips, and then almost instantly melts into Pete’s embrace.  He wraps his arms around Pete’s middle, clutching the back of his jacket like that’s the only thing keeping him grounded on the Earth.

Pete’s plan had been to kiss Patrick for just a moment, just to get his friends off his ass (and also maybe kinda definitely because he had wanted to kiss him too), but all thoughts of stopping fly right out of his mind.  It might get a little too out of hand—Patrick is an _excellent_ kisser, good god—because they don’t stop until Frank whistles at them.

“Alright, lovebirds, you’re blocking the door,” he says, pushing them out of the way.  “People want to come in here and _not_ have to try and work their way around some gay dudes making out.  I got my blackmail video so we’re all good now.”

Patrick looks much too flustered to reply, so Pete uses both hands to flip Frank off.  “Fuck you, Frank.”

Frank shakes his head and points to Patrick.  “Not me, him.  I’m taken.”

“So you admit it!” Pete cries, ignoring the way Patrick splutters at Frank’s comment.  “I knew you and Gee were sleeping together!”

Frank scrunches up his nose.  “Get the fuck out, Wentz,” he commands, and then closes the door after about three people, who had indeed been trying to work their way around some gay dudes making out, enter the shop.  He waves at them through the window and then laughs at something Brendon says.

Pete laughs, feeling Patrick slip his hand into his again.  “Things are shaping up to be pretty great,” he says.

Patrick nods shyly and adjusts his glasses and beanie, both of which had come askew in their makeout session.  “Pretty fucking great.,” he agrees.

“You know,” Pete says as they start to walk down the sidewalk together, “Brendon is having a Christmas party tonight.  Do you maybe...like, wanna come?”

“Only if it’s with you,” Patrick grins.

“God, you’re perfect,” Pete says, slapping himself mentally.  “Sorry, just—”

“Don’t be sorry,” Patrick chuckles, and boy if that isn’t a sound Pete wants to hear every day.  “Compliments are always a good way to go.”

Pete kicks at a particularly fluffy pile of snow in his path.  “So...what do you want to do now?  Since our friends basically kicked us out of the best place to hang out.”

Patrick smiles at Pete without quite turning his head, so that the grin is lopsided and adorable.  “Well.  I kinda want to have lunch with you.  You know, go on a proper date that isn’t being monitored by our friends.”

“That sounds nice,” Pete agrees, somewhat dreamily, and then grins mischievously.  “But you know what I want to do first?”

“What?”

“I’d really like to kiss you again,” Pete confesses.

There’s a twinkle in Patrick’s eye.  “I’d like it if you did that.”

So Pete does.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas! Leave some comments and tell me what you think of it. :)


End file.
